last shreds of light

for fishing and picking and defending
emory says about the sharp hook shape
at the tip of mama duck’s bill
_______
the open spaces (where the limbs
have fallen off) make me feel weird i say
to emory in the white pine
where we each perch in our own formation
of branches that remind me
of the birds nest on a tall ship
_______
it’s stickier closer to the tree
(meaning trunk) emory says
hugging his unshirted upper body
to the stickyness of the trunk
and all around us,
a neon yellow dust/film
coats each limb
pollen, mo explains from below
shaking out of forming pinecones.
that, and the cottonwood flufff
as seen from up here
carried slowly
across the farm
by a light breeze
_______
glass gallon jar shimmering
with water and the green of
spearmint/peppermint sprigs
stuffed in
_______
cracked i say about the surface
of the lookfar soil
like one might imagine
when people talk about droughts
only we aren’t in one
_______

the rusty rebar that i use
to dibble holes into the aforementioned crusty surface
soil into which i plant several varieties
of tepary beans imported from the
pima county seed library
and rachel’s garden
working until the last shreds of light
slowly dissipate
chasing every minute in this window
of dry before the window of wet
opens again
_______
one syllable i say
for names
that all sound obnoxious when listed together
but just might work
one at a time:
gage
chance
sloan
jett
scout
or maybe silas

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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